


Priorities

by penguistifical



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt cares and so does Jaskier, M/M, going on adventures and not talking about feelings, taking some liberties with the video game monster lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguistifical/pseuds/penguistifical
Summary: Geralt’s getting used to a certain bard's company, but he can’t help but notice that Jaskier takes better care of his lute than of himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 935





	Priorities

“I told you to stay back.”

Jaskier dizzily looks up at Geralt from the ground and gives him a grin that is as unrepentant as it is unfocused. This is hardly surprising, as the bard had just made a rather graceless tumble and impact against the damp churchyard cemetery ground, having been bodily thrown by a wraith. 

“I thought you told me not to come with you at all?” Jaskier retorts, reaching out with his unoccupied arm to be helped up.  
  
“I did say that,” Geralt carefully looks over the musician, making sure he hasn’t knocked his head in the fall. It’s lucky he hadn’t hit any headstones, or both his skull and the lute he’s currently cradling would surely be cracked. “You said you needed to accompany me, to see this ‘tragic tale.’”

“Ah, so you were listening to me. And here I thought you couldn’t be moved by the need for a muse.”

Geralt, already frowning, feels his scowl deepen when he sees by the dirt on Jaskier’s jacket that shows he clearly landed fully on his arm and side, taking a rougher fall than necessary to protect his beloved instrument. He tugs the musician upright, and, ignoring his protests, roughly feels his shoulder and ribs, making sure that nothing is broken.

“Good thing you’re not in the business of healing,” Jaskier huffs, when released. “You’re doing more damage than the ghost did, I’ll have bruises from your ministrations.” 

Having assured himself that Jaskier’s as fine as ever he is, Geralt turns from the cemetery, knowing that Jaskier will follow after. He’s been doing that a lot lately, currently for slightly more times than Geralt has told him not to.  
  
“So, why do you think this place was haunted? What does such a lost and mournful being wish to accomplish?”  
  
Geralt shrugs.  
  
“Tch. You have no poetry in your soul.”  
  
“I also,” Geralt calls back. “have no dirt on my jacket from being tossed by a wraith.”  
  
He smiles as he hears the sounds of Jaskier fussily wiping at his shoulders, as if Geralt hadn’t already absently dusted him off while checking for injuries. A soft noise he can't quite identify has him turning around and seeing, to his annoyance, that Jaskier has moved from cleaning himself to using his own sleeves to gently polish the lute.

After a bit, he hears quiet strumming accompanying their footsteps as they make their way back towards the town, and the start of a slow ballad about moving on and those left behind being able to mourn and move on themselves. It is, though he won’t say so, surprisingly lovely, and he appreciates that Jaskier has left the encounter with a rather meditative and solemn state of mind. It might make for a peaceful evening.

This appreciation dwindles when, after having returned and having spoken with the local alderman about the slain wraith, Geralt enters the inn for a quick meal, and sees Jaskier. He is grandly gesturing and charading at the bar for two enthralled barmaids, clearly regaling them with imagined heroics.  
He is also now festooned with bandages along his shoulder and side that look more like adorning ribbons than a secure plaster.

They are, Geralt notes, not even on the side of Jaskier that hit the ground.

He waits for Jaskier to leave with one of the women, or possibly both of them, although he dreads the bragging that will ensue in the morning if that’s the case.  
However, the bard ends his story with a flourish, flirtatiously blows them each a kiss, and then turns and begins strumming the slow tune he composed on the road as he walks over to the counter.  
Geralt closes his eyes and drinks his ale and pretends not to notice that the warm and mellow tones of the lute floating over to him grow louder as Jaskier approaches, and feels himself relax slightly as Jaskier settles in next to him.

“Do my bandages look well on me? Such courage in how I present myself, despite my injuries?”   
  
They look like an entertainer’s costume, but Jaskier could easily have needed a true cast. He would have taken no injury if he hadn’t been so stubborn about shielding his instrument. 

“Is there any chance you’ll leave that lute somewhere safe, next time?” Geralt asks.  
  
“No.” Jaskier answers, brightly. “Where to next?”

* * *

Jaskier’s next injury comes from a drowner.

Geralt whipped around the moment he heard fear in the bard’s startled cry. Even as he’s moving instinctively to attack the slimy horror, he takes in the sight of Jaskier looking down in panic with both of his arms lifting his lute high above his head, away from the water and the muck, away from the creature lashing out at his legs.  
Geralt fights them both free of the drowner, and, as it turns out, the other four drowners and a curious beast that looks a bit like a horse with waterweeds for a mane. He’ll investigate that later. For now, he needs to tend to Jaskier’s wounded ankle.

Jaskier sits down hard, looking at his leg in dismay, and Geralt thinks for just a moment that he might be about to learn self-preservation, and isn’t it a shame that people must always be burned before they learn to respect fire.  
But then, no, Jaskier beams at him, and says “Actually, the tears in the cloth aren’t nearly as bad I thought they’d be. This will be quite salvageable once we’re back somewhere with somehow who knows how to sew. Did you hear that waltz about the handsome tailor that was popular about a year ago? Yours truly was the author. Let me tell you about the best line of that one."

His truly dreadful pun about needles is cut short by his indignant squawk as Geralt pulls him forward and begins applying a wound cleanser and general antidote from his pack. Drowner claws carry diseases and infections, it’s better to take care of this as soon as possible.  
  
“Can’t we bring someone with gentle bedside manner, next time? I’d rather be treated by Roach.” Jaskier sulks.

“You should get armor of some kind, preferably before the next job.” Geralt says, slowly turning Jaskier’s ankle back and forth slightly to make sure that there is just the one set of claw marks. They aren’t deep, fortunately.  
  
“That’s quite a change from telling me I shouldn’t be going out with you ever again, that I should leave myself somewhere safe.”

Geralt thinks about saying he’d clearly meant it about the lute, but realizes it’s a pointless argument. Jaskier’s music is a complicated and entangled part of himself. 

Instead he says, simply, “I don’t like seeing you get hurt.” 

Jaskier allows him to finish applying salve to the scratches, before straighting up and running his hands through his hair, as if physically brushing off the moment and its seriousness.  
  
“A bard’s words are his armor, Witcher. A silver tongue should be enough to get me out of any situation. Or,” with a waggle of his eyebrows, “into any situation. Ah, give me that.”

Wondering what Jaskier possibly sees that is a reasonable segue from that suggestive remark, Geralt follows his gaze to see that the bard is looking, pleased, into his small pack of herbs and alchemical supplies. Jaskier gestures towards a small jar of neutral oil used as a base component for most steeped infusions.

Geralt passes it to him, confused, and then grimaces as Jaskier pours a little out onto his fingertips before easing it in gentle circles into the teardrop back of the lute.

“These elven luthiers really know what’s what. Look, there’s no water damage despite getting splashed, see?”

He holds up the lute, expectantly, for Geralt’s approval. Geralt holds out his hands for what’s left of his oil and says nothing.

Jaskier, always contrary, pours a little more oil out on his hand, and rubs it into a nonexistent scratch onto Geralt’s leather wrist guard.

“A little polish for my witcher, also.” he hums, before closing and tossing the bottle back to Geralt.

He stands up with no regard for his ankle, swaying slightly before finding his footing, and walking unsteadily off.

Geralt wonders how Jaskier ever made it as far as he did, and gently touches the small softened patch on his armor.

* * *

Geralt knows “sing” was the wrong word to use, the worst word, even, that he could have used, and he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. Jaskier looks at him with absolutely joy, clicking his heels with delight, his hands already sketching quiet practice chords outlining his piece to come.

“They sing? Geralt, why have you never told me that you’ve fought monsters of a musical nature? If there’s a more perfect fight for bardic inspiration, I can’t think of one.”

“They don’t sing,” Geralt amends, feeling the fruitless nature of his words. “It’s...there’s no beauty, no depth.” It’s not like your singing, he doesn’t say. “It’s screeching. It’s a wire that winds its way into your skull, not a tavern tune.”

Geralt looks at his excited bard and knows that Jaskier will be coming along, again.

The monster that he’s been hired to dispatch this time is almost certainly a bruxa, and, with any luck, it’s already been dealt with. They’re dangerous blood-drinkers, and though they are said to sing, it’s a nightmarish sound used in their arsenal of weapons to immobilize prey. Another monster hunter came through before him, and purportedly slew the beast. However, he brought back no proof other than a blood-slicked blade.

He realizes quickly, in following the previous witcher’s path into the woods, that although the man clearly had dealt an undead some kind of injury, it’s also a bad a trail as any Geralt has ever had to follow.

As best as he can make out, the beast tried to go to ground but found no haven, all while doubling back on itself twice before possibly taking to trees for a bit.  
  
The creature he’s trying to find was badly wounded, leaving a trail of ichor typical to the undead, an iron stench so thick in the air that he feels like he’s breathing it in, that it’s coating his lungs in stinging rust.

It’s possible that the previous witcher is correct, and that the creature died slowly after their fight. 

It’s also possible that it’s lying somewhere in wait, injured and made more dangerous by its desperation for blood to replenish that which was lost.  
The stirred up trail and spilled blood could also be covering signs of fellow unharmed dead, eager to avenge their fallen companion by feeding on the witcher that had walked so obligingly into their territory.  
Geralt swears quietly, and closes his eyes for just a brief moment to concentrate, to feel out the motives of his prey and focus his senses in a moment of silence.

Instead, he hears dead leaves and brush shoved aside as the creature that had staunched its grievous wounds and buried itself lunges out at him.  
Its terrible shrieking cry sounds like a rusted weathervane spinning in a windstorm, and he finds himself unable to move. 

And somehow, despite the volume and intensity of its piercing shriek, he hears the awful sound of lute strings breaking as Jaskier lunges also, putting his instrument in front of Geralt’s face.

The fight is brief. The bruxa has no more strength. Its attack was the last desperate maneuver of a creature with no other options. After he’s struck the beast down, Geralt watches as it shivers in between a humanoid form to a monstrous bat-like creature.

He stakes it, to be certain, before examining the body to see what the previous witcher had accomplished.

Along with what would eventually have been mortal wounds, there are two curious thin burns down its chest.

“Jaskier,” he calls.  
  
There is no response. Jaskier is sitting with his back against a tree, holding his lute, gently running his fingers over the wood, still and silent.  
Geralt lifts the bruxa so that its chest is facing the bard.

“Jaskier, your lute strings are silvered.”

That does cause him to look up, and, as he sees the marks his strings left, a smile flickers quickly across his face, before he turns back to the lute, unwinding the broken strings from the pegs.  
  
It’s usually better to burn the bodies of the undead, or at least their heads and hearts. This bruxa is almost certainly alone. Its companions would have helped it or killed it by now, if it was sharing the territory with others. Geralt begins clearing the area to make a fire.  
After the fire is laid, after the gory task of burning the heart has been accomplished and Geralt has wiped his hands clean on pine needles, he finds Jaskier sitting at the fire, cradling the lute. He looks much more himself, though still slightly fragile.  
  
“Is it cracked?” he asks, feeling foolishly like he’s asking about someone’s sick relative.

“Miraculously, no, the lute’s fine. I’ve never had such an instrument like this. A few faint scratches, but hardly visible on the patterning, and it’ll need some new strings, but I always care a few spares.” Jaskier reaches for the small pack he brought, and winces.  
Geralt is across the firepit and at Jaskier’s side before he realizes he meant to go over to him.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, and says “I don’t need any of your bedside manner. I’m already hurt, this time.” but reaches out and balls his fist in Geralt’s shirt as the witcher sits down next to him, as if to keep him there.

Jaskier has only a minor sprain. Geralt sees no discoloration as he examines under the sleeve, carefully and lightly running his fingers down Jaskier’s shoulder and arm. He realizes he’s perhaps mimicking Jaskier’s movements from earlier with the lute, gently feeling something precious to assure himself it’s whole, and looks up at Jaskier’s face. The bard’s cheeks look a bit pink, but it’s hard to tell in the fading light and shifting shadows of the fire.

Jaskier studies his face in return, and then gives him a mischievous smile.  
  
“You were right, you know.” He adjusts the lute in his lap, and finishes, “They really can’t sing, can they?” He tries a few notes on the remaining strings, strumming a slow thoughtful pattern of scales, before giving Geralt a long look, and then scooting closer and pointedly leaning against his shoulder.  
Geralt looks at Jaskier’s injured arm curled protectively around the lute, sighs, and puts his own arm around Jaskier, holding him close, and watching the bard's slow pleased smile.

“Do we have to do anything else with this would-be warbler?” Jaskier says, after a bit.

“No, we’d be bothered by now if there were other bruxae about.”

“Hm.”  
  
Geralt looks down sharply, but the bard isn’t mocking his usual taciturn response, he’s drifting off.  
  
He should probably douse the fire and package what’s left of the bruxa as proof for the village, but he finds himself shockingly comfortable, in the woods, with the remains of an undead, with his bard cuddled into his side.  
  
He thinks about moving the lute so that Jaskier can rest a little better, but, seeing his tight grip on it, even in sleep, decides better of it. Instead, he runs his hand gently through Jaskier’s hair and wonders if it’s possible to make leather armor for both bards and lutes.


End file.
